Page 4 of Claimed By Daddy
Tossing back the covers, I slide my legs off the side of the bed and hiss when my bare feet hit the icy hardwood floors. Groaning, I groggily push from the mattress, stretching myarms, and trying to piece together my thoughts despite the dull throbbing ache in my head.Wine… Way too much wine.So much of it that I apparently fell asleep on the couch waiting for Cillian to come back. All I really remember is the vague, dizzying feeling of being led upstairs in the dark and the faint promise of him explaining everything to me in the morning.
It’s the morning now. And I want some answers.
I glance down at the oversized Fall Out Boy concert T-shirt I’m swimming in. Cillian must have given it to me before I passed out again once he brought me upstairs.It’s his.I think.Yanking it down my legs to cover myself, I pull open the bedroom door and tentatively glance into the hallway to find it empty and quiet.Too quiet.
My nostrils flood with the nutty aroma of coffee as I walk down the spiral staircase, the soft thump of my feet against the wood the only sound accompanying me. The delectable scent grows stronger with every step I take toward the kitchen, and my mouth waters in anticipation. After last night, I need it.And a half-dozen ibuprofen. Maybe even a Liquid IV.
Pulling open the cabinet above the coffeemaker, I am pleased to find it full of glasses and mugs. I stretch to grab one of the mugs on a shelf just out of my reach. My fingers brush against the ceramic handle, and I press onto my tippy toes, trying to reach it. The loose hem of my shirt lifts with my stretch, and the fabric dusts against my upper thigh. Being forced to choose between modesty and coffee, I lean onto the counter, attempting to reach a little higher. Coffee will always win.
“For fuck’s sake, Eavan,” Cillian’s disgusted voice cuts through the silence, startling me. “Put on some fucking pants, I can practically see your?—”
“I don’t have anyfuckingpants, Cillian,” I snip, cutting him off—annoyed at both his remark and my inability to grab the damn coffee cup.Who puts cups this high?A rich, woodsy scent laced with spice slowly overpowers the strong aroma of coffee, and I’m about to thank Cillian for reaching over me to get the cup when he presses against me—a little too close.Way too close.My body tenses instinctively as his firm chest brushes against my back, and my breath hitches.
“Or don’t,” a deep voice murmurs against my ear, low and flirtatious.Definitely not my brother.His warm, coffee-scented breath blows over my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine and a flush over my cheeks. “You look fucking good without them.”
Jerking my head to the side, my heart slams against my chest as I whip around to see who’s behind me. And I’m suddenly glad his comment left me holding my breath, because I think I would’ve forgotten how to breathe. He’s tall—probably a foot taller than me—and his presence is… overwhelming. Gorgeous as sin, with a face I know I’ve seen before.
With the cup handle dangling on a hooked finger, he playfully outstretches his hand to me as he rubs the other over the scruff on his jaw. A devilish smirk pulls at his lips, and a dark glimmer sparkles in his smoldering chestnut eyes when I reach for the cup. He arches the scarred brow above his left eye and takes a step back, teasingly keeping the cup just out of my reach, running his fingers through his onyxhair.
“You… You’re…” I gasp, my voice catching in my throat, and my eyes blowing wide when I recognize his familiar face. My pulse skyrockets—for a much different reason than only a moment ago—the name racing through my thoughts, causing my blood to run cold. This can’t be real. I must still be dreaming in bed.All of this is just some weird nightmare.I choke out his name. “Enzo Roseti?”
My eyes dart between him and my brother, who appears completely unfazed by Enzo’s presence, seeking some sort of explanation. Some reassurance from Cillian. But he doesn’t give me any. My breathing grows rapid, the room closes in, and Enzo suddenly feels far too close.
“What the fuck, Cillian?” I shout, my voice rising an octave in panic. Pulling a knife from the butcher block on the counter beside me, my hand trembles as I lift it toward Enzo—my instincts screaming that I need to protect myself from him. From my enemy. “Why is hehere?Why the hell is Enzo Roseti in your kitchen?”
With the smug smirk not falling from his face, Enzo takes a step toward me. My hand shaking, I hold the knife in front of me to keep the distance between us, but it doesn’t deter him. He leans forward, and the sharp tip of the chef’s knife presses against his bare chest. It dimples his firm pec—a hair’s breadth from piercing the skin—as he reaches around me to set the mug he pulled from the cabinet on the counter. “Ourkitchen, princess.”
“What the hell is he talking about?”
“He lives here. We’re friends,” Cillian answers flatly. I shake my head, not understanding. A friend? From the Roseti family? The same family that our father has been fighting with for years? How the hell can Cillian sit there and say that Enzo Roseti is a friend with a straight face? I can barely comprehend what he’s saying. “He’s like a brother to me. He isn’t going to hurt you.”
“A friend? Abrother?!” I exclaim. “He’s a Roseti, Cillian! They’re?—”
“Getting real tired of having a knife shoved in their chest,” Enzo interrupts, wrapping his hand over mine and squeezing until the pinch forces me to let go. He pulls it from my grip before it can clatter to the floor. Not releasing his hold on me, he tenderly massages his thumb over my now-sensitive skin as he drops the knife into the sink.
“Thisis what we needed to talk about,” Cillian insists, with a seriousness I’ve never heard from him before. He pushes from his seat and quickly strips from his baggy gray sweatpants, tossing them at me without hesitation. “Put these on,” he barks, his tone clear that this is not up for argument.
I blink—confused—until I notice Cillian’s narrowed eyes are moving from me to Enzo, whose gaze is roving up and down my bare legs. My skin prickles with heat, and I slip into the oversized sweats quickly. Even covered, he doesn’t stop staring—his gaze dark and predatory.
Cillian scowls at Enzo as he shakes his head, his features softening as he turns toward me. “I’ll explain everything.We’llexplain everything. Trust me.”
I don’t know what to say. Absolutely nothing makes sense. My brother has me standing in the lion’s den, and the pride’s alpha male is eyeing me up like I’m his dinner. Against my better judgment, I let out a heavy exhale and nod. “I trust you.Justyou.”
“Fuck, Cillian,” a tall, muscular man with short dirty-blond hair gruffs from the living room. Staring at Cillian in nothing but his boxers, the blond scoffs, “Put on some fucking pants.”
“The other O’Brien looks much better without them.” Enzo obnoxiously winks at me, a grin tugging at his lips as his gaze runs up and down my body once more. “Trust me.”
Ignoring his comment and fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I stare at my brother in disbelief. “Really?” I shoot my arms toward the blond man walking into the kitchen. “A fucking Romanov too? What in the hell is going on, Cillian?”
Sipping my black coffee, I take a seat on a lounger near the railing of the terrace. Cool spring air brushes against my face and nips at my bare chest as I pull on a much-needed T-shirt. Nikolai leans against the glass railing, cigarette in hand, staring out at the sprawling concrete of the city as we both wait for Cillian to join us for the private conversation he demanded.
Cillian storms onto the terrace, pulling on a white T-shirt and having replaced the pants he threw at his sister. He silently paces back and forth like a caged animal—clearly on edge. Cillian’s gaze flicks between us and Eavan inside theapartment until he calms enough to sit on the lounge chair beside me.
Watching him settle, my gaze is drawn over his shoulder to Eavan. She’s standing in the kitchen, swimming in her brother’s clothes. Leaning against the counter and slowly sipping her coffee, her eyes never stray from the three of us—like she’s trying to read lips and follow our conversation through the glass.Clever girl…
“She may act tough, but she’s scared,” Cillian mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t understand why she’s here. Why we’re here withyou twoof all people.”
“Why would she?” Nikolai asks rhetorically, without turning from his view of the city. “We’re the enemy. She’ll never understand.”
